The Divine Appointment (24 page)

New York City

After her meeting with Senator Proctor, Stella Hanover rode the Amtrak from Union Station in DC to Penn Station in Manhattan. Stella was pleased with herself. The train ride was very relaxing. The ride was about three hours, and she was back in her Avenue of the Americas office in time for Senator Proctor’s afternoon press conference.

Stella entered her twenty-seventh-floor office at 12:50 p.m. eastern time, and all of her staff snapped to attention. But she didn’t yell at anyone. She didn’t bark. In fact, she was rather polite. She was in a good mood. This was the best she had felt in quite some time. She spoke kindly to Valerie before walking into her office and closing the door behind her. She wanted to savor the moment alone.

It was too early in the day for most people to drink, but Stella poured an afternoon cocktail anyway. A celebration like this deserved a little something special. She sat down behind her desk and, with the remote, changed the television channel to CNN. It had the best news coverage, in her opinion.

Soon the screen was plastered with the image of Senate majority leader, Lance Proctor. Stella sipped at her drink and thought about the look on Senator Proctor’s face when she’d shown him her file on him. It brought pleasure to her soul. He was easy to blackmail. She had files on practically every member of Congress and most others inside the Beltway. The only one of any consequence she hadn’t been able to capture in one of her traps was President Wallace. She doubted she ever would. She increased the volume as Senator Proctor began to speak. There were at least a dozen microphones standing in front of him.

“Some new information has come to light regarding Judge Dunbar Shelton,” Senator Proctor said. “And I can no longer support his nomination to the Supreme Court. My office has learned that when he was in law school, Judge Shelton wrote a research memorandum that said
Roe v. Wade
should be overturned. This country cannot have someone with such extreme positions sitting on the highest court in the land.”

Stella decreased the volume and finished the last of her drink. She smiled to herself. She was satisfied. She didn’t worry about how things had gotten to this point. The end justified the means. The end was that Dunbar Shelton wouldn’t be on the Supreme Court. And that was all that mattered to Stella.

James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, the White House, Washington DC

President Wallace’s press conference was delayed until Tuesday morning. Porter and his staff had voluntarily disseminated Judge Shelton’s research memo following Senator Proctor’s press conference the previous day. The press release attached to the memo said that the president only wished the memo had been discovered earlier. He was proud of Judge Shelton’s position on constitutional construction. All the networks and cable news channels had opened their Monday-evening newscasts with the memo and pronounced Judge Shelton’s nomination dead.

On Tuesday morning President Wallace stood before a bank of microphones in the press briefing room. He had just finished his prepared remarks, which were essentially the same as the press release the previous day. The briefing room was overflowing with members of the White House press corps. Porter stood stage right.

“I’ll be glad to take questions,” President Wallace said.

Hands went up from every reporter in the room.

“Olivia.” President Wallace pointed to Olivia Nelson. He still didn’t like her, but she fit perfectly in the plan.

“Mr. President, do you honestly believe that Judge Shelton can still be confirmed?”

President Wallace shifted his weight and leaned on the top of the podium. His face was close to the bank of microphones. “Absolutely. I expect the Senate will confirm him.”

There were audible gasps in the room. It was the reaction he and Porter had hoped for.

“But his views are extreme and certainly not close to the mainstream of America,” Olivia chided.

“His views are not extreme, Olivia. This memo was written by a law school student over thirty years ago. It addresses constitutional construction, not the morality of abortion or any other societal issue,” President Wallace said confidently. “Most jurists in the country think just like Judge Shelton when it comes to constitutional construction. We need men and women like Judge Dunbar Shelton on our courts.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to withdraw Judge Shelton’s nomination and nominate someone who won’t divide the country?”

President Wallace stood straight and smoothed his royal blue necktie. The press conference was going just like he and Porter thought it would.

“I haven’t asked Judge Shelton to withdraw,” President Wallace stated, “nor has he asked to be allowed to withdraw. And I don’t plan for him to withdraw. Before you even ask, we’re not going to relaunch his nomination and present him as something he’s not.”

“Would you agree that Judge Shelton should at least go back to the Judiciary Committee for additional questioning about the memo?”

Finally the question he wanted. President Wallace didn’t like the press, but when necessary he took pleasure in manipulating its members. “Judge Shelton has already answered all of the committee’s questions. They asked him about constitutional construction and he told them. The answer won’t change if it’s asked again. There’s no reason for him to appear before the committee again.”

And to agitate Senator Proctor so he would take the bait, President Wallace continued, unprompted. “I’ll tell you this, though. I think Senator Proctor should resign his seat in the Senate immediately.”

The audible gasps rose again, and President Wallace saw and heard pens scribbling on paper. The saber rattling had begun. Instead of being defensive, President Wallace and Porter had decided to go on the attack. Beat Senator Proctor at his own game. If he was going to sabotage Judge Shelton’s nomination, then they were going to try to take Senator Proctor down, too.

“What do you mean, Mr. President?” Olivia asked.

“Senator Proctor knew all about Judge Shelton’s views before now and he supported the nomination. This memo wasn’t a surprise to him. What’s changed? I’ll tell you what’s changed. Nothing. Senator Proctor has always been and will always be a man who can’t keep his word. We don’t need a man like that in the Senate.”

President Wallace paused as the photographers’ cameras flashed and the television cameras recorded. His face was full of resolve. “That’s all the time I have.”

He stepped down from the platform and Porter followed him from the room. They could hear the cries of “Mr. President, Mr. President!” as they walked down the hall.

“How’d I do?” the president asked Porter.

“Perfect. The senator now knows that we’re not going down without a fight.”

“But it won’t be much of a fight if we can’t find out how Proctor got the memo.”

Havana, Cuba

Joe Moretti liked Havana. He liked the Cubans’ rum and cigars. But he was particularly fond of the high-heeled Cuban women who danced salsa and disco at the nightclubs. They were beautiful, soft, and irresistible.

Joe had been to Havana often when he needed to be invisible for a while. And it was time to be invisible. The Shelton bombing and the Carlson murders required it. Stella had paid him another $50,000 for the box of documents he delivered to her from the Carlson residence. He didn’t know what was in the box, but Stella seemed pleased and the job paid well. The latter was more important to Joe than the former.

When he had arrived in Havana early Monday morning via Cancún, Mexico, Joe had plenty of money to flash around. That usually got him whatever—and whomever—he wanted. When he wasn’t chasing women, he liked to eat at D’Giovanni’s. It was located near the Marina Hemingway on the north shore of the island country and had the best Italian food of any restaurant in Havana.

Joe sat as his usual table with a beautiful Cuban woman he’d met the previous night. She told him her name was Sofia. He didn’t care what her last name was. He wasn’t even certain that Sofia was her real name. It didn’t matter. She agreed to have dinner with him that evening. He hoped she would also be having breakfast with him the next morning. With her long, curly black hair, dark eyes, and dark brown skin, Sofia was exactly his type.

They were waited on by his usual waitress. The proprietor came by their table periodically to make sure their meal was perfect. Everything was routine and comfortable. He saw some regulars he recognized and some tourists he didn’t. There was a Latin American couple sitting two tables away, enjoying themselves. Joe had three glasses of wine and a plateful of linguine. When Sofia touched his hand and peered seductively over her wineglass at him with her dark eyes, he knew it was time to leave.

Joe paid with a crisp Ben Franklin from Stella Hanover’s money and exited the front door. Sofia held his hand in hers.

The Latin American couple exited behind them. The woman hung on to the man’s arm, and they laughed and talked in Spanish.

Joe had no idea what the couple said. And he didn’t care. He had Sofia on his mind. He lit a cigarette and smiled at Sofia as the couple passed them on the sidewalk. He noticed the uneasy expression on Sofia’s face as she looked at the man and woman who were walking a few feet in front of them. It was as if she were listening to their words, and the words troubled her.

It was dusk and the temperature was high. Joe didn’t like the hot, humid weather. It wasn’t like that in Brooklyn. But he would tolerate it for a while for a girl like Sofia. Some stars were visible in the eastern sky as day reluctantly gave way to night. As Joe and Sofia walked toward his car three blocks away, a man approached them. The man appeared to be an African American and had a thick chest. He wore sandals, Bermuda shorts, and a floral shirt. Joe took him to be a tourist.

“Do you have the time, sir?” the man asked Joe in English.

Joe stopped, released Sofia’s hand, and consulted his watch. “It’s almost seven p.m.”

“Thank you,” the man said.

Joe reached for Sofia’s hand again, but it wasn’t there. He turned and noticed that Sofia had stepped three feet away from him. Her earlier worried look had changed to fear. But the realization registered too late with Joe.

A four-door car screeched to a stop at the curb beside him. The African American who had asked for the time grabbed Joe around the shoulders and the Latin American couple ran back toward him. Joe struggled to free himself, but the African American was too strong. The woman thrust a nine-millimeter pistol in his face, and the two men shoved Joe into the backseat of the car. The African-American man climbed into the front passenger seat, and the couple surrounded Joe in the backseat. They both pointed pistols at him. As the car sped away, he peered through the rear passenger window to see if Sofia was still standing there, but she had disappeared.

The driver glanced at Joe in the rearview mirror. “We’re glad to have you onboard, Mr. Moretti.”

Joe flinched.
How do they know my name?

The driver was a tall man with a mustache and black hair so bushy that it brushed against the ceiling of the car. His voice was American, and he had a large scar under his chin. When he smiled at Joe, a gold tooth glistened beneath his mustache.

“Where are you taking me?” Joe managed.

“Be patient, Mr. Moretti. You’ll find out soon enough.”

The U.S. Virgin Islands

The jet transporting Porter McIntosh landed at the airport in Charlotte Amalie on the island of St. Thomas just after 8:00 a.m. eastern time on Wednesday. He’d flown on one of Simon’s planes so there wouldn’t be an official record of his leaving the United States.

One of Simon’s men met his plane when it landed and drove him to a safe house near Magens Bay on the north shore of the island. It was there that Porter would meet Joe Moretti for the first time. Even before Porter met the man, he hated him. There were four innocent individuals dead because of Joe Moretti. That was enough to make anyone hate him.

But Porter knew that Joe Moretti was only an instrument. A tool used by someone else to carry out their evil scheme. It was that person Porter wanted. Not the street thug, but the kingpin.

Porter removed his dark sunglasses and entered the safe house without any pomp or circumstance. His driver followed him in and stood just inside the door. Porter nodded at Simon, who met him at the door, then glanced around the room. A Latin-American man and woman stood in the back. The African American, whom Porter recognized from the street in front of Simon’s office, stood in the middle of the room. Simon remained near the door.

Joe Moretti was seated in the middle of the room beside the African American. The sight of him initially caused a rage in Porter, but he extinguished it. Now was not the time for vengeance. That would be handled by someone else. Porter needed answers. He walked toward the Mafia man.

Joe Moretti wore a black, short-sleeved shirt and black pants. He was tied to a chair, and his olive-toned face was bruised and bloated. His lips were swollen, and dried blood was visible in the corners of his mouth. His head slumped against his chest. His appearance didn’t bother Porter in the least.

“We got here about midnight,” Simon said, following Porter from the door. “He hasn’t had much to say.” Simon smiled.

Right then it seemed to Porter that Simon relished what he did for a living just a little too much. That made Porter nervous. He was glad that Simon was on his team even if it was only because Porter paid him.

Porter was dressed in a blue blazer, slacks, and a starched white dress shirt. His attire conveyed the message that he was important. “Let’s see if he’s ready to talk now. I probably have more to offer him than you do.”

The African American grabbed Joe by his hair and pulled his head back so Porter could look into his face.